


they're built like light (like spirits in the night)

by mozartspiano



Series: they're built like light (like spirits in the night) [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anti-Ziganism, Holocaust Era AU, Homophobia, Humiliation, M/M, Self-Hatred, Violence, anti-Semitism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozartspiano/pseuds/mozartspiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>warsaw, 1940: not the most inspiring place for a young gay pianist and his romani lover to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they're built like light (like spirits in the night)

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: homophobia and racism (especially anti-semitism and antiziganism), mentions of sexual acts between two males, swearing, violence, death, humiliation, angst, self hatred
> 
> notes: this is sporadic. the dates are iffy and the history is often muddled. all you need to know is that the german army occupied poland in september, 1939, and the warsaw ghetto was in use from october 1940-may 1943. the events in this story are often romanticized, which should be known before reading.
> 
> also, i wrote the first part of this in september of 2012 and it was originally posted [here](http://mozarts-piano.livejournal.com/19611.html).

the sky hasn't been the same colour it used to be in a long time.

it's like a heavy weight has descended over poland, shuddering the country into darkness. the dead horses of the once rich calvary cry out over the screams of the three million more human strangers, chained to their ancestors as they bow their heads to the stab of a red, crossed flag.

sometimes it feels like fire, this all consuming darkness. the streets are empty but they ring out with desperate pleas for free lands of far away. for acres of acceptance, fields ripped of judgment. 

all in all, it's not the most inspiring place for a young pianist to be.

-

the first time he sees him he's begging outside a barber shop.

the glass the boy is leaning against is dirty and smudged something awful with a large star of david and an ugly _juden_ over where _vanderburg's barber shop_ used to be. the sight makes louis swallow.

" _cześć_? hello?" louis approaches him so carefully. a curly head is just visible under a stack of scarves and bits and pieces of clothing and louis wants to tell the boy to run. "are you alright? you should get off the streets, they're not very safe this time of night."

the lump on the ground doesn't react. 

louis sighs, looking down the empty street, before kneeling next to the boy. he can see rough, worn hands clutched on to a moldy slice of bread and he wants to reach out, to touch them, but he's afraid.

"i'm sorry," he says and he catches just a flurry of action from behind the thick afghan wrapped around his partner. "but you really do need to get away from here. especially this shop. you just don't want to draw any attention to yourself, _ja_?"

the boy looks up at that and the first thing louis sees is eyes the colour of a warm summer's day, so green it makes louis beg for home. 

and then he sees the dark skin around the eyes, the foreign, brown, unforgivable skin.

_gypsy_ , louis thinks while the boy stares up at him curiously. _almost worse than a jew, that is_.

"come on," louis makes his mind up fast and tries to smile, but his actions are awkward and stilted and he doesn't want to think about the consequences that could arise if he were found helping a dirty nomad. "you can sleep in my home tonight, if you like."

-

louis plays the piano at the nazi's dinner parties every sunday night. 

he taps the keys until his fingers bleed, chin strong and held up, back straight, shoulders out. he doesn't let his eyes drift from the sheet music and doesn't dare smile at anything, not the pretty wives with their pearls or the surly men with thick beards.

louis plays and plays and gets more and more disappointed in himself with every chord because he's always wanted to be a fighter, a survivor, but he's never been more scared in his life than when he makes eye contact with a nazi man for half a second. 

-

the boy's name is harry, and when he takes off his scarf and his swaddle of clothes louis can see that he's quite nice looking. 

the thought makes him flinch but he doesn't stop looking.

"thank you," is the first thing harry says to him, skin dark in the weak lighting of the small candle on the table. his eyes are wide and his hair is wild while he sucks on the bread that louis has given him.

"don't worry about it," louis smiles, getting the knitted quilt his mother had given him before he left home and tossing it over the couch. "are you here in our fair city visiting?"

"yes and no," harry's voice is smooth and rough at the same time, low with just a hint of childhood. 

his voice makes louis' fingers itch for the sleek wood of his bow, his chin wishing to be hooked under his violin. 

"where are you from?" the question is stupid, but louis is good at stupid questions.

"rumania." _of course_.

"and how did you find yourself in poland?"

"should ask you the same question," harry's eyes meet his and he swallows because he shouldn't be thinking the things he's thinking about harry's face and how lovely it is. "it's french, yes? your accent."

louis' a little impressed. he smiles at harry. "have you been? to france i mean."

"once, with my mother. it's very beautiful."

"yes," louis sighs, visions of lottie dancing through their grandfather's vineyard flashing before his eyes. "probably not looking too nice now though, what with the tanks and things blowing it up."

harry's fingers snatch through the candle's flame that sits in the middle of the round table. his eyes glint and his breath is quiet. "what are you doing in poland?"

"what are _you_ doing in poland?"

harry smiles at that and little dimples appear in each cheek, making louis' stomach swell and swoop and pinch up. he doesn't let out a reply in his broken polish though, so louis clears his throat.

"i'm here for school," he says and cuts his eyes to where his piano is in the corner of the room. "i study piano and violin at the university."

he looks over to see harry nodding, eyes stuck on the piano. he seems to not be able to look away from it and louis understands, can sympathize with the great might a piano holds. 

harry has probably never seen one before.

"would you like me to play something for you?" louis asks, surprising himself, and when harry nods slowly he reaches across the table to hold harry's hand in his own and pull him over to the bench.

his fingers pry chopin's _waltz op. 64 no 2_ from the smooth keys as he watches harry watch him.

-

when louis wakes up the next morning the couch is empty but there are two apples and a loaf of bread on the table. harry is at the tiny window, smoking one of louis' cigarettes naked, but he turns around when louis walks in.

he's all torso and long limbs, beautiful and slim and maybe not graceful but fleeting and hot to touch all the same. louis can feel the shame run up his spine when his eyes dip down subconsciously, only to flick back up to harry's tired eyes.

"i found us some breakfast," harry drawls in his low voice, accent peaking and dipping in certain areas. he stubs out the cigarette on louis' window sill and moves to sit down. 

"what do you mean by _found_?" 

"whatever you want me to mean," harry smiles, and louis wants to step on every single butterfly that flares up in his stomach at that.

instead he shakes his head and sits at the table, rubbing the apple on his bed shirt until it becomes shiny. he takes a large bite out of it and the sweetness fills his mouth while across the table harry does the same, eyes grinning at him.

-

harry stays. 

louis breathes quieter at the nazi dinners and doesn't look up for anything – not even a round of applause.

-

the streets are getting more dangerous this time of year.

there's still the sweet smell of summer in the air, heavy sunsets and the bitter taste of august as the trees sway and the children play. louis walks slowly, soulfully, down to the academy, letting his eyes wander on the old brick of the neighbourhoods, the quiet simplicity of the footpaths, the harsh shatter of undesirable storefronts.

he clutches his violin now as if it's a part of him, as if it is his soul and he is just a body for which to play it with.

the building of his professor's study is looming up ahead when louis hears the loud jeers coming from his left. 

a quick glance shows a crowd.

louis' throat tightens unexpectedly, his lips thinning, eyes begging to flick away but they're unable, like a bright flare of light on a cold night, a shiny coin on a worn path, harry's laughter in the dreary apartment.

louis stops.

louis stares.

a man, younger than forty maybe just older than thrity-five, is kneeling in the middle of the square. he has a hat on his head, black and rounded and proud. his hair is long and curled and his clothes are dark and the boots that keep kicking at him leave his skin green and blue and red.

"c'mon you filthy jew," he hears one of the men yell. laughter swells up around it, making the man on the ground cower even more in himself.

"preaching son of abraham!" calls out another and louis turns his head and quickly walks away, humming softly under his breath to ignore the slurs, ignore the words, ignore the feeling rising up in his chest.

-

"do you play on the streets?" harry asks one night, eyes open and inquisitive. there was no discussion on when and how he would leave, and so he's taken over the couch, sleeping awkwardly on it's small frame.

"sometimes," louis coughs, sipping at the bitter, rationed cup of coffee harry had made for both of them minutes before. "there isn't much money in it, but i do alright."

"i always wanted to be a musician," harry says dreamily, stars alight in his eyes. it's probably the most beautiful thing louis' seen in a long time and he stares at harry's profile unabashedly. "i was going to move to england when i was younger, with my friend, zayn."

"you dream very big."

"what other way is there to dream?" 

louis watches as harry twirls his own fingers together, looking down at the trousers louis let him borrow. 

"where did you meet zayn?" louis asks, turning slightly on the couch so he can bring his feet up, curled in on himself and facing harry. he wants to keep him talking, keep that slow lull of a voice in the air because it makes everything sweeter, makes everything worthwhile for a little longer.

harry eyes him for a second before turning as well, leaning his chin on louis' knee so their faces are mere inches apart. "his family came over from turkey the year i turned ten." harry's breath smells of cheap coffee and sauerkraut and louis shouldn't think it's lovely, but he does. "we were going to make it big in america, he and i."

"i can imagine you in america," louis smiles, suddenly wistful. "watching a baseball games and eating hot dogs and things."

harry grins and it's like a breath of fresh air. "i would love to. when the war's over you and i could go. just the two of us."

they stare at each other for a second before louis nods. "that sounds wonderful."

a little dimple appears on the side of harry's cheek and louis' chest warms with something he's never experienced before. "promise. promise me we'll see america together after the war."

"harry…"

"promise," harry's very good at hiding how young he is, but at some moments, like this, he's absolutely rubbish. "promise me louis."

"okay, fine," louis shuffles a little closer, just enough to let their noses brush against each other's, before pulling away. "i promise."

-

it's guilt, the feeling that keeps welling up in his chest.

guilt for being that man, the pervert, the sicko, the one who wants to kiss harry, to stroke his cheekbones, to mouth across his warm stomach, his hips, his lips. 

louis is guilty and scared and the mental image of him being beaten down like a jew on the side of the road, boots kicking and guns pointing, is enough to make him turn away from harry in the morning and ignore the desire curling in his stomach.

-

"you shouldn't go out anymore," he says one night over a dinner of almost burnt toast and boiled potatoes. he'd kept his head down while harry recounts a story of when he was a little boy, lost in a horse stable back in his small town, but he knew he had to say it eventually.

harry's eyes are clear and vaguely curious. "why not?"

louis flinches at the picture that fills his head, a thin woman with skin like harry's being tossed around by laughing men today in the square. "it isn't safe."

" _life_ isn't safe," harry chides back, dipping his head down to suck water off his finger. "that doesn't mean we stop living it."

"harry."

"louis."

"please don't leave anymore," he lets his eyes drop to his hands, hidden and twisted under the table. "their hate knows no bounds, and i don't know what i would do if you got hurt."

it's quiet.

the scrap of harry's chair against the hard floor shocks him, and when louis looks up harry is looming over him, eyes quiet and sad and smiling a little.

he puts a big, warm hand on louis' jaw, thumb swiping just under louis' left eye. he takes in a shaky breath as harry crouches down, so close he can almost taste the food on harry's breath. harry's free hand goes to louis' thigh while the other keeps rubbing circles into his cheekbones, and louis can't look anywhere else but at the green.

"louis," harry almost whispers.

"yes?"

he doesn't reply in so many words. instead, so gently it feels like nothing and everything is happening at the same time, harry leans forward to press his mouth to louis'.

and for a single second the guilt in his stomach is stepped on and shut up by happiness.

-

they fall into each other.

it's dark outside, wet with the rain that had splashed onto the withered window pane. the streets are probably as cold and empty as the day they first met but louis can't get off the bed to go look because there are warm arms around his torso and sweet lips at his neck.

"you are-" louis sighs a bit and lets his hand tickles at the little hairs on harry's stomach. "you are very beautiful."

"thank you," harry bites down slightly on louis' shoulder and louis has never felt so _alive_ before. "you are very beautiful as well."

"thank you."

"you're welcome."

louis laughs quietly – subdued and soft spoken in a way that's become practiced over the past year. it's as if he thinks there are big scary german men around him at all times, waiting for him to yell _i am a homosexual!_ from the rooftops.

"what are you really doing in poland?" harry asks him, squirming up to rest his head on the pillow. he leans in close to louis' face and closes his eyes, hand reaching to tangle with louis'. louis is briefly overwhelmed at the contrast of their skin colours.

"i go to school here, i told you-"

"no, no," harry strokes a free finger down louis' nose. "i mean why are you still here?"

louis sighs and sneaks a glance over at the beautiful picture the piano makes across the room, gleaming slightly in the cool light of the lamppost outside. "they liked my music."

"what?" 

"they wanted me to play for them at their big dinner parties," louis catches harry's eye, his green green eye, and clutches tighter onto his hand. "they told me to play for them. and who was i to refuse?"

-

at one of the dinners a tall man comes up to him, clean shaven with sturdy shoulders. louis is immediately on high alert.

"you play very well," the man says in a crisp, german accent. 

"thank you," louis nods, and then – noticing the man isn't moving away to get some wine or chat with someone else – tries to continue the conversation. "i study at the academy here."

"they say you're from france," he hasn't left. he hasn't left yet and louis can't understand why that is. "the south?"

"north," louis tries to smile back but it's hard – it's hard to smile at _anything_ these days, let alone a strange, tall man who could rip away everything louis cares about in a heartbeat. "just outside the city of arras." 

the man looks vaguely impressed, "your family must have fought bravely against the kaiser's army."

"my father, yes," louis nods, biting his lip a little. he tries not to show fear, because this man looks like he could smell it on him. he probably already does. the stench of it, rolling off him like waves. 

"hm," the man fiddles with the clasp on his jacket a little. he looks louis from head to toe, calculating with his eyes. it makes him feel sick, like he's been through an x-ray. "you're strong though. with the eyes of an aryan. you could do well in germany."

louis opens his mouth to speak.

but he's saved. another man comes over, hustling him to his piano, while the tall german slinks off to a table, grabbing a roll of bread as he goes. 

he's saved from ever answering the question of questions.

-

it's at night, after the high frenzied energy of a sinful fuck, that louis gets to learn about harry.

"we used to live in this large, horse pulled trolley, my family and i," he says one night, skin paled in the whiteness of the moon. "my grandfather would sleep in the back while my grandmother knitted sweaters and things."

he's holding louis around the waist with a single arm, pushing him down onto the mattress, but his other hand is just stroking down louis' face. it's a comforting pressure, soft and gentle and sweet, and every once and awhile he interrupts the story to press a kiss to the corner of louis' eye.

it's very hard to not fall in love with harry.

"my sister, gemma, fell in love with a man from austria." his eyes are slightly dazed, remembering the past. louis wants to live in them. "she fell pregnant with his child, but he didn't think our way of life was right, thought we were dirty fools. so we left, went here instead."

he smiles down at louis then, and then louis sighs because harry only shares stories if he gets stories in return.

"alright," louis huffs out a breath and mock glares, startling harry into a laugh. "where i'm from, there's a lot of farms. too many. it's quiet and dull and boring."

"not a good place for you then," harry quips back and louis chuckles a little at the notion.

"no," he breathes in. the air is sickly sweet with the smell of harry. he runs a finger down his ribs and watches his shiver. "we'd take trips down south every summer to go see the sea and the vineyards and get tan. my mother would buy all these scarves and tie them around her head, and the girls would whine about not getting as dark as me."

"sounds wonderful," harry's eyes are shut.

"it was," louis can see them in front of him, can _smell_ the wine on his mother's breath, can hear her laughter in the air. "it was amazing."

"say something in french," his voice is slow and sleepy and slightly slurred.

"what do you want me to say?"

"something nice," harry's mumbling into the pillow now, muffled and young and endearing. "something sweet."

louis let's his hand soften through harry's curls, caressing at his ear before shuffling closer to him. " _tu es belle. tu es trés belle_."

"belle?" harry snorts a little, hands resting near his face like a kitten. "i'm not girl."

"no," louis leans up to kiss at his nose. "you're much prettier than a girl."

-

he sees them marching one morning on his way to class.

he sees them marching and immediately runs back the way he came, his mind chanting _harry harry harry_ over and over.

there's big ones and small ones, young and old, beaten and new. some have got boxes in their arms with words like _photographs_ painted on the side in ink, while others are carrying large suitcases with one hand. their faces are gaunt, old, twisted, confused and angry like a torn out, wet, old newspaper on a sunday morning that no one wants.

they're the undesirables.

and louis knows, he _knows_ , that he and harry belong there.

so he runs, and prays to that stupid silly god of his, that harry's still in the flat when he gets back.

\- 

louis remembers the day of the invasion so well it's as if he was fighting himself.

he wasn't of course. 

for days he'd seen them running sandbags back and forth warsaw, as if a sack full of sand was going to hold back tanks and artillery and machine guns. 

louis was an optimist before that day. he used to hum happy songs under his breath, used to go down to the local hospital and play _you are my sunshine_ on the piano for all the sick children, used to smile at jewish men when they nodded to him in barber shops.

but then there were nazis filling the streets he once loved, nazis filtering through apartments for weekly searches, nazis beating long bearded men on the streets, nazis busting through store windows, nazis making armbands with mocking stars for people to wear, nazis handing out hate like candies.

louis stays in the shadows after that. he doesn't talk. he doesn't fight. he just waits for it all to be over.

-

"harry?"

his heart is leaping from his chest and there's this pounding in his ears, like nothing else he's ever heard. it's dark in the apartment, all the curtains are drawn and shut tight like europe itself, awful and putrid and disgusting and where was harry?

" _harry_?" he's shouting enough to bother his sick neighbour now, but for that second he doesn't care. he doesn't care about anything and then harry's walking out of the bathroom with a confused look on his face and louis' shoulders sag with relief.

"louis?" harry asks in that broken, _foreign_ accent of his. "you okay?"

"for now, yes," louis' rushing forward, sweeping a hand over harry's cheekbone and his eyebrow and his thin ribs. "you have to hide. the nazis, they're kicking people out of their homes, there's a parade outside, you have to hide-"

"louis, louis!" long fingers grab at his cheeks, as if to calm him, but louis cannot be calmed, cannot think past the terror in his mind.

"please, please, just go somewhere, anywhere, get away from here right now, please! you know they hate you, just go, go to america, go to england, just get away from here-"

"louis, you're talking like a mad man," harry's voice is soothing and low while louis hiccups, panic so heavy in his mind he doesn't feel the tears dripping down his nose. "slow down."

"i can't, they'll be here any minute, they're-"

"i don't know what you're talking about, love-"

there's a knock at the door.

-

his father taught him to play the piano when he was a small child.

well, he says father. but he wasn't – isn't, not really. his real father, dirty grime that he is, was a canadian soldier, victorious and brave from the win at vimy ridge.

apparently he was beautiful in all the wrong ways (or so mother used to tell him). apparently he was too clever for his own good, quick and witty and dangerous. apparently he had eyes like the ocean, clear and blue and heartbreaking. 

which works. because that's what he did.

and then, nine months later, louis was born.

but he doesn't dwell on that. everything he ever knows, everything he ever wants to know, is his french mother and their beautiful home and the way his little sisters tie the bows on their beautiful heads of blond hair.

he only wants to remember the glorious memories, not the tainted. like when his father, his _real_ father, taught him a silly melody on his grandmother's grand piano, something by bach or maybe mozart. he doesn't remember that.

but he does remember how _liberating_ it felt to let his fingers dance.

he's always said that nothing else in the world compares to the feeling one gets when they play the piano for three hours straight, fingers cramped and tired, but mind ablaze with melodies and symphonies and the echoing of music.

nothing else compares until the day harry kisses him on their bed, thin sheets pulled over their heads, while their breath mingled in the space between them, twisting and turning and becoming one.

-

" _offnen!_ open!" a harsh voice outside their door calls.

louis steps back from harry so fast he almost trips. but he doesn't go to the door. instead he stares at him. 

"harry," he whispers and harry just looks back, eyes growing wide with something louis' never seen in his eyes before.

terror.

" _sich beeilen_! open this door now!"

"louis."

"harry."

it's like his feet have been glued, perhaps cemented to the ground. his breath is coming out in short bursts, little puffs filling up the cold apartment. his fingers twitch. his stomach heaves. 

the door slams open.

three men march into the room, two with long guns, held like the soldiers they are. the last other is tall and brutish looking, often coming to the big nazi parties louis plays at with a slight blond by his side, smirking and rich and dreadful.

louis can't stop staring at the guns.

can't stop imagining what it would feel like for a bullet to smash through his brain, taking every last thought and memory along with it.

"you," the man is speaking in harsh german words, eyes sharp and pointed like dog's. he points at harry. "you have a minute. pack your things and leave."

harry doesn't seem to understand, eyes wide with fear, body frigid, head shaking ever so slightly.

"filthy _gypsy_ ," he says the word like it's a disease, a curse, an animal. "i said move."

"harry," louis murmurs, and it seems to switch a light on in harry's mind. he immediately starts to the bedroom.

"you," the dark eyed man is glaring at louis now, and it seems to be ten times colder in the room. "what are you doing here? why is he here? how do you know him?"

they don't seem like questions. at least, not casual ones. the real questions seem to hit louis in the gut like a solid piece of ice.

_do you want to live?_

_do you want to live while harry is sent somewhere to die?_

_do you want to die with him instead?_

and then, perhaps, louis does the stupidest thing he's ever done.

but like most stupid things, it is also very brave.

the bravest thing louis would ever do.

"we're lovers," louis says, just loud enough for the scowl on the man's face to turn even darker, more disgusted, more animalistic.

-

his mother had let him choose warsaw.

when he was eighteen and bright eyed, ready to see the world, she had asked him. asked if he wanted to go all the way out to the pretty school with the pretty city and the pretty polish people – or if he wanted to take the ship across to england, to london and it's lights, to freedom, to a new world.

louis chose poland.

louis still doesn't remember why.

-

and so they walk.

they both have suitcases, worn and torn, holding the blankets and sweaters they would need to survive whatever conditions the nazis saw fit for a couple thousand jews and the other undesirables.

harry's turned his attitude. as soon as they passed out of the apartment complex, away from the man's hateful eyes, he turned optimistic.

"maybe it won't be so bad," he shrugs, his pink mouth quirking up just a little as they shuffle behind an old jewish couple. "maybe it'll just be a new home."

louis cannot agree with the happy theories he's coming up with.

he knows they're headed for the dark blackness of destruction.

"do you want me to carry that for you?" a voice asks in louis' ear while he walks. he turns to see a stocky man with a kind face smiling at him, eyes bright, a box under one arm. 

"i'm fine thank you," says louis, hitching his shouldered bag with one hand while the other clutches at his violin case so tightly it hurts. 

"my name's liam," he says in the most cheerful voice louis can imagine a person having, while walking to their death. 

"'m louis," he still doesn't like him, this bright eyed jew. he shuffles a bit more to harry's side and looks straight forward, to the swaying woman in front of him. she has three small children surrounding her, holding hands like a train. 

louis is reminded forcefully of home.

"i don't think i've ever seen you at a service," liam says, oblivious to louis' aloof attitude. he doesn't even try to include harry in the conversation.

even the victims allowed themselves to hate.

amazing.

"i'm not jewish." he isn't. he doesn't want to be.

"oh," liam looks confused. "what are you doing walking then?"

louis sees his eyes flit over to where harry is matching louis step for step, one hand barely ghosting over the small of his back. 

"not jewish," louis lets his mouth be twisted into a half smile. "just gay."

it's easier to say it the second time.

liam's eyes are wide. he almost seems confused by the statement, as if he doesn't understand what the word means. 

"you-" he cuts himself off, and louis can practically _feel_ the judgment in his eyes, the way they cut to harry now, like he can see the waves of homosexuality rolling off them in disgusting, unlawful waves. "you laid together?"

"many times," louis says, and it's like this new light has been lit in him. harry grabs his hand now. he clutches it hard, and louis returns the squeeze, ignoring the looks he can feel on his back. 

liam doesn't say anything. 

"are you disgusted?" it's harry who says this, voice low and soft, like he's scared of what liam thinks of them. 

they never get his answer. 

instead liam cuts through the parade to where a large group of children and an older man are walking, bending down to pick up a little girl and place her on his shoulder. they watch him. in another life, another circumstance, another set of morals, they could have been friends.

"you're _not_ disgusting," louis says, eyes glancing quickly away from liam. "we're not. we're not."

"no." harry nods. "we aren't."

louis doesn't know if he believes the words.

-

louis doesn't tell harry he loves him.

he thinks harry's probably figured it out by himself.


End file.
